top of page


The deer—


whose homeschooled deerlings call the dead telephone poles

who bully the fences decategorizing the high desert

who swallow the hysterical to become sluts

who spit to don flickering halos

the glint of which pry out hunters’ retinas, thin cloud of wet microscopes


The deer somehow—


not for lack but of trying to lack

too near us, and so frequently

are given rooms

branded gentility

but how we’ve won is when the deer absent themselves

and leak privately


—know I am a mother.


Your black air.
Your okes.
How you’d end me
Your poems, to-do ists.
I miss
Calling you riend,
Your ongue,
My hands flat
Against your ack.
Your ands against


A body walking from a lake
Wants to never have been pushed in.

A star wants only a little something:
A donut
A beautiful story.

It never ceases to amaze me
That at the end of your neck

Is a drill, a fountain, the tragedy
Of photography.

I told you the best word is yes
And you said, no, elbow.

Tiny failure.
Band-Aid in the pool.

return to ISSUE THREE

bottom of page